


A (Wo)man, A Plan, A Stream, Illyria

by kinetikatrue



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Gen, Twelfth Night - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinetikatrue/pseuds/kinetikatrue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippet of Bandom Twelfth Night AU that I'm not writing any more of. And scene?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A (Wo)man, A Plan, A Stream, Illyria

  
  
The storm comes up out of nowhere. One minute Frank's sleeping in his cabin and the next he's being woken up by getting slammed into one of the walls of it, his ears filled with the sea's roaring and one of the crew members banging on his door. When he stumbles outside, onto the deck, people are rushing around, trying to do something, anything to bring the situation under control. Frank really only knows skateboards and cars, though, so he figures it's better for him to stay out of the way and get the lay of the land that actually try and help.

He spots Jamia up near the prow of the ship, standing by the deck rail staring out at the monstrous waves and starts going hand over hand along the rail towards her. He's almost made it, is, in fact, reaching out to grab hold of her shoulder, when the ship lurches and sways and dips and Frank finds HIMSELF caught in the grasp of the ocean. And Jamia slipping away from him.

Along with most of the ship, apart from the piece of deck rail he'd been holding onto when the world went to pieces. Really, it's just fucking crazy and terrible and awful. The wave that grabbed Frank doesn't stop with him. It sweeps over the ship, gathering everything in its path into its embrace and then turning the ship into a bunch of metal and plastic fragments. Frank clings to his piece of rail and keeps watch for Jamia. He thinks he screams her name, but he can't hear, really, so he can't be sure.

In the end it doesn't fucking matter, anyway. He never catches even the slightest glimpse of her before the sea robs him of his senses. When he next knows anything it's that there's wave-smoothed sand beneath his body, clear blue sky above - and that his salt-encrusted, sand-gritted t-shirt and sweatpants are clinging to his fucking everything.

Frank's pretty sure he's got sand in places he didn't know he had to get sand in.

And bruises, he amends as starts to sit up. Bruises on top of bruises. Almost drowning is not nearly all it's fucking cracked up to be.

Still, he's alive and the storm has passed. It's taken Jamia with it, by the looks of it, since she's not anywhere amongst the flotsam that fills his field of vision. Most of which is further down the beach Frank washed ashore on. The only thing directly to hand is the piece of deck rail he'd gone overboard clutching hold of.

Not to put too fine a point on it, he's sitting on a beach located who-knows-where with nothing but the clothes on his back to call his own. His wallet is gone - and so is his phone. And his laptop. Plus all the other important shit in his messenger bag and all the rest of his clothes.

And not just Jamia, but everyone else he was traveling with, probably. Bob and Hambone and Cortez and everybody.

He's really kinda screwed. Completely and totally screwed, really. With a two-foot-long black silicon dildo as thick as one of Bob's thighs. Covered in studs.

And Frank would be saying all of that to Bob if Bob were around. Which he is not, as far as Frank knows. And may never be again. And that? That totally motherfucking blows.

And then, from behind him, comes Bob's voice, saying all dry and slightly sarcastic, "Good of you to wake up and join us, Sleeping Beauty. In case you were wondering, we're in Illyria. The powers 'round these parts are a duke and a countess. And Lyn-Z - the countess? She's not real fond of men right now. The duke's backing her up."

Frank flails a bit and all his bruises protest in chorus and he ends up laying on his back, again, arms and legs starfished, staring up at Bob's dumb smirking face. Because Bob is magic and a ninja and a complete asshole to sneak up on Frank when Frank was sitting there thinking he was dead. Or at least marooned on a desert island. Or something.

"Asshole." He tells Bob, kicking feebly at Bob's leg.

Bob snorts and asks, mildly, "For what? Letting you know just how screwed you could have been?"

And, yeah, that would have been screwed without lube or any prep, if even trying to prove that he is who he says he is would be liable to make his life even worse. Which, seriously, should not be possible.

Still, the whole sneaking up on Frank thing was totally not on, even if Frank did it to Bob all the time. It wasn't the same at all, since Bob just spent a lot of time wishing Frank was dead, not thinking he'd actually been killed and waiting to be attacked by his ghost. He kicks at Bob again and says, "Whatever. You know what I meant, motherfucker."

The corner of Bob's mouth twitches and he agrees, "Glad you're alive, too, twerp."

Which, yeah, Frank can get behind that. His life may have gotten a bit more complicated, but he's not about to just give up. Not when he's already been attacked by a fucking monster of a storm and lived to tell the tale. He's definitely not going to just say fuck it all and lay down and die. He may not know exactly how he's going to deal with the situation, yet, but he's sure he'll think of something.

Something like, huh. Making use of the fact that that's Jamia's Samsonite rolly-bag sitting on the sand, a few feet behind Bob. Frank needs clean, dry things to wear anyway. And, well, if it will serve his interests to pass through Illyria dressed as a girl, then Frank will just rock that look with the best of them.

He grins up at Bob and says, "Yeah, that's right: I AM alive - and I have a plan." And rolls to his feet like he isn't covered in bruises and being dragged down by his salt-stiff clothes.

Bob snorts again and says, "Is that so?"

Frank says, "Yep, that's right," strolls past Bob to Jamia's bag, crouches down next to it and opens it up.

Inside he finds pretty much everything he could need, all neatly packed away. Jamia's shoes are on top: decorative flats and little slouchy black suede ankle boots. There's a mesh pocket full of pairs of tights and leggings and another one filled with underwear and bras. And then there's the main compartment, which holds knit pants and a couple skirts, plus an entire assortment of tops: lacy tank tops and form-fitting sleeveless things and slouchy, off-the-shoulder long-sleeved sweaters and band tees. No jacket - Jamia was wearing that and her jeans and sneakers on the ship, but Frank thinks he can work with what he's got. It's definitely better than nothing.

Behind him, Bob is snickering. Frank ignores him, just snaps the case closed again, stands up and asks, "Is there fresh water around here? Like, oh, somewhere where I could rinse the fucking sand off?"

Bob says, sarcastic-politely, "Sure thing, Frankie. Or are you going to go by Francesca?"

And Frank knows he has no dignity - that, really, he's never had any dignity - and that he'd be mocking Bob just the same if Bob were the one trying to pull of this entirely deranged plan, but he still grumbles, half-heartedly, "Fuck you, asshole. Just tell me where the fucking water is. Or, y'know, show me, if you're so into this whole fucking helping out the little lady thing."

There's still a snicker in Bob's voice when he replies, "Just so long as you're aware that this is a terrible plan and that I'm going to LAUGH when it goes down in flames. There's a stream let's into the bay about a half-mile up the beach. Which I would be DE-lighted to show you. Just so I can point and laugh, y'know." He stares hard at Frank for a moment, like maybe Frank will come up with a better plan out of nowhere if Bob just concentrates hard enough on that happening. And then he takes off.

Frank extends the handle of the rolly-case and sets purposefully off after him, sticking to the firm-packed part of the beach. It's still not the easiest going.

About halfway there, he stops to take off his t-shirt and drape it over his head. Bob doesn't even notice, just keep on walking on ahead, long legs outpacing Frank more and more with every step he takes. A while after that, Frank takes off his sweats, too, tired of walking funny to avoid chafing. If he's got next to no dignity, he has even less shame.

By the time Frank catches up with Bob at the stream, Bob's gone quiet and poker-faced once more, but his face is still red with laughing at Frank's approach. He takes the rolly-case from Frank and turns inland as soon as Frank gets there, saying something about brackish water and getting away from the salt.

When Frank catches up to him the second time, beside what appears to be a wider, deeper part of the stream, Bob just gestures at the water, all It's All Yours. And that's all Frank needs to hear before he's whooping and plunging in to rinse off the crust of salt and sand which has formed on his skin.

The water's COLD, and the sound that started off as a battle cry before Frank hit the water maybe changes into something a bit more like a scream after he's hit it. But all the same it feels amazing after the long walk in the sun Frank's just had and when he emerges after splashing about for a while (and trying to get Bob wet) he feels the cleanest he has in forever, even though there wasn't anything even slightly resembling soap around.

He finds a rock to sit on while he dries off - and dozes off a little, as well. And then he gets Jamia's bag back from Bob and opens it up and starts sorting out an outfit. He doesn't even try for a bra, just puts on one of the lacy tank tops and gets down to the business of tucking his dick away into a pair of practical cotton panties. And then it's time to figure out what goes on top. Black lace leggings seem like a good place to start. He pulls them on and adds a black miniskirt and a black and white striped sweater that fits tightly at the waist and loosely enough at the neckline to allow it to slide down and reveal the tops of his shoulders.

After that, it's all accessories. By some miracle of sizing, the little slouchy boots fit - and a more detailed search of the bag reveals a striped scarf patterned with skulls and a makeup case out of which Frank pulls shadow, powder and lip-gloss. He gets his face enhancements done, finger-combs his bangs into order, puts the makeup back into its case and the case back into the bag - and turns to face Bob.

Bob says, "Fuckin' a," and goes suddenly, blankly silent.

And Frank giggles and says, "Told you I had a plan." and "Which way to the duke's?" because he doesn't think he'd like the consequences if he turned up at the countess's and she figured out that he wasn't what he was pretending to be.

Bob's still not talking. He just picks up Frank's old, wet clothing and tucks it away inside his coat - and then picks up Jamia's bag and sets off through the woods, heading further and further upstream. And Frank follows him. Even though it was Bob's ship going down that got them into this whole fucking mess in the first place, Frank trusts Bob to not steer him wrong. He's Bob.  



End file.
